


Safe Journey, Brother

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Fourth Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2003-10-14
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a twist of fate leaves Eomer horribly wounded, friends and family gather to support him and each other in a time of need. AU, angst as well as action; features Eomer, Lothiriel, Elfwine, Eowyn + assorted friends.  PG-13 for some violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The city of Edoras was veiled in thick, mournful clouds. Cold winds whispered through the cracks in doors, shutters and walls as ice formed in buckets and baths alike. Dark earth was misted over with a light covering of frost, and the few trees shivered naked beneath the dull sky.  
  
Lothíriel sighed as she looked out on this sight from a fog-coated window. She wished that her heart held half the hope that was buried in the rich soil beneath the frost, but her prospects were barren. She feared that the return of spring for which Edoras looked in the coming months would not be granted to her.  
  
The queen of the Mark stepped back from the window and sank into a chair as the memories returned to her. Chief amongst the images was the dark stain of blood against pallid flesh.  
  
***  
  
The room was veiled in the thick scent of medicine and blood. Chill air danced mockingly between its walls, taunting the large fire that burned in the hearth. Dark stone walls decorated with tapestries and wooden beams were feebly illuminated by the light of beeswax candles. The room's sole inhabitant lay perfectly still beneath thick layers of linens, wool and furs.  
  
Éomer clutched his side and winced in pain as wounded muscles were pulled by his weakening breaths. The healers had offered what little comfort they could. All that remained was to wait.  
  
The king of the Mark pulled his hand away from the bandaged wound, one of many. He briefly regretted dismissing the healers and his wife, having claimed he needed the time alone to think and to rest. Memories came to him as his fingers traced the map of bandages across his torso. Dominant amongst them all was the scream of a horse and the sickening scrape of jagged metal against bone.  
  
***  
  
Snow was thick in the canyon, muffling the tread of hooves on rock as effectively as thick cloth. Wailing, the wind came down into the pass, tearing at the horses' manes and their riders' cloaks. The white of the wind-whipped snow sharply reflected the dull shine of a late afternoon sun, masking the jagged outlines of rock and naked tree in a flurry of fey light.  
  
A party from Rohan rode carefully through the canyon, banded close to take advantage of the track beaten by their horses and the warmth radiating from the twenty-two bodies. At the head of the group, Éomer sat easily on Flintstrike, a horse sired by his stallion Firefoot twelve years earlier. The king pressed his gloved hands against the stallion's withers to better ward off the cold, trusting his horse to pick its way through the deepening blanket at its feet. Flintstrike strode determinedly through the deep snow with barely a touch from his rider, his thick coat flaked with white snow and pinpricks of frost.  
  
Soon, the party would come to a halt and tend to their horses before all light was lost. Shelter would be found and fires built. Hooves would be cleared of snow and ice after matted coats had been smoothed. Saddles and other harness would be carefully checked over, the bits and buckles jangling against the quiet rustle of horses feeding. Conversation would flow lightly between the hardened soldiers of Rohan, bringing added warmth to the chill night.  
  
Éomer was looking forward to the halt. He was tempted to call it at that very moment, but yielded instead to the voice of reason. There would not be a suitable campsite for some distance yet, and at least another hour of travel time remained to them. He momentarily chided himself for undertaking this journey to Rivendell at such a time, but the lords Elladan and Elrohir had requested assistance in dealing with scattered minions of the Dark Lord who still dared to scavenge near the Elvish refuge. Aragorn could certainly have sent aid from Gondor, but Éomer had volunteered himself. Rohan was nearer to Rivendell, and to be truthful, the king of the Mark had desperately needed an excuse to leave the more mundane functions of lordship behind. Battle was perhaps not the healthiest means of expending his increasing frustration with bureaucracy, but it was the most convenient.  
  
An hour later, the snow was still falling in feathery drifts, and the sun's light had paled to a dull brownish gray. Éomer chafed his hands against Flintstrike's withers, stirring some small measure of warmth and feeling in them, as he scanned the surrounding area for the site he had been hoping for. In the swirl of flakes, the landscape was reduced to faded blurs, and it took the king several long moments to discern a sparse guard of trees lined up along a small bend in the canyon wall. He raised his hand and gestured, signaling his intention to reach the spare shelter, and the party changed its course.  
  
Soon, the men were warming themselves by tending to the horses, removing tack and tying tether lines, shaking out blankets and currying thick coats. The animals stamped and snorted, their vaporous breath mingling with their masters' in the twilight. Éomer grinned as Flintstrike shoved his velvet nose under an arm, seeking a small token of the man's affection.  
  
"You'll not find it there, my friend," Éomer laughed, giving the horse a rough but friendly rub on his crest. Flintstrike snorted and withdrew, suddenly far more interested in the horses around him than his master.  
  
Flintstrike started, jerking away from Éomer at a loud crash. The man turned, and found himself confronted with the sight of orcs scrambling down the canyon side like spiders. They shrieked in derision and anger, their rusted blades gleaming dully in the weak light. The riders reacted slowly, encumbered by their chores and their surprise. Even the two men who had been set on watch found themselves sluggish from the cold. The youngest sentry was the first of the riders fall, overwhelmed by the orcs and cut down as he struggled to hold some of their number back and give his companions more time.  
  
With barely a thought, Éomer cut Flintstrike's tether and swung onto the stallion's back. He did not pause to shout orders to his men, for he could see that each was doing all he could. The orcs outnumbered them two to one, and in other days, Éomer would have considered these favorable odds, but he could see the desperation shining in the creatures' eyes. These beasts were scavengers, drawn together in hunger and driven to hunt a stronger foe out of terrible bodily need.  
  
Éomer and Flintstrike plunged into the fray. The orcs closed in about them, and soon all was blood and screams.  
  
***  
  
Elfwinë shivered as he walked down the halls to his father's rooms, trying to ward off the chill bite of the air and the cold weight on his heart. Each day for the past week he had walked this corridor at the same time, his duties in court finished and his responsibilities to his family just begun. Each day for the past week, he had prayed to all that was good and right, hoping that when he opened the door into the vast chambers, he would find his father still breathing beneath the heavy shroud of furs and blankets.  
  
Today was no different. Though the air was slightly warmer than it had been for some time, Elfwinë did not notice it. His preoccupation lay with the cold white of his father's flesh—whiter it sometimes seemed, than the bandages or linens that swathed the wounded king's form.  
  
 _Let him be alive,_ the prince prayed silently. _Let him be breathing. I care not if he is awake, for I know that sleep spares him much pain, but please … Let him live._  
  
The healers had told the king's family that Éomer might leave them at any time, but they had also said to not lose hope. The king was strong, they said. He might yet recover with time and Éru's blessing.  
  
As the days had passed, the family's hope had grown, rather than diminished. Elfwinë, thrust suddenly into the king's role due to his father's convalescence, made it his duty to raise and tend that hope. Each time he walked into his father's rooms and found the wounded king breathing, he also found a new reason to believe that his father _would_ live.  
  
Today was no different. The prince laid his hand on the door and gently pushed it open onto a view of stone and candlelight. His gaze was drawn to the massive oak-framed bed against one wall, and the comparatively small form that rested upon the mattress. For a long moment, Elfwinë stood, watching, until he perceived the gentle rise and fall of the covers, and finally the quiet, struggling breaths that drove the motion. He slipped inside and gently closed the door behind him, walking with quiet steps to his father's side.  
  
"Hello, Father," the prince said softly, though he could see that the king slept soundly.  
  
There was little to do but wait by the wounded man's side. Elfwinë would not begrudge his father the rest, and it was enough to simply be beside him, knowing he still lived. Eventually, the prince knew, his father would wake. Perhaps it would not happen while Elfwinë waited, but he could hope, and hope was swiftly becoming all he had.  
  
Elfwinë had lost all track of time when his father finally stirred. A quick glance showed that the candles had burned low and the sky, already dim when the prince had entered the king's chambers, brooded dark and empty in the window casement.  
  
"What time is it?" Éomer asked weakly as he opened dull grey eyes on the dimly lit room.  
  
"I've no idea," his son replied with as much wry humor as he could muster. "Dark."  
  
"Indeed," Éomer confirmed with a glance at the window.  
  
Elfwinë restrained the swell of grief that threatened to reduce his own voice to a harsh whisper like his father's, and instead turned his attention to conversation. "We've had word from Minas Tirith," he said casually, as if discussing nothing more than the flavor of a new wine.  
  
"Oh?" Éomer prompted, playing along.  
  
"King Elessar informs us that he will arrive within two days, to be a guest to the allies and friends of his kingdom for a time if they will have him."  
  
"And your answer?" Éomer asked, smiling slightly past his pain as he rested against thick pillows.  
  
"That the people of the Mark would be honored to have him as their guest for as long as he wishes to remain."  
  
"It will be good to see him again." The king's voice was barely audible, and his eyes slid closed as he spoke. Elfwinë could see that even the small effort of conversing had exhausted his father already, and placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder.  
  
"Rest, father," he said. "You need your strength."  
  
Éomer offered no argument, his breath slowing as he dropped once more into slumber. Elfwinë remained at his side all night, unwilling to shed the mantle of duty and love, even for his own rest.  
  
***  
  
Éomer battled hard, his sword cleaving limbs and opening thick flesh. The orcs were determined, but the king had faith that he and his men could drive them back. Most of those present had stood against Sauron's forces in the War of the Ring, against seemingly hopeless odds. These creatures they battled now were not so many.  
  
It did not take long for Éomer to realize his error. No, the orcs weren't many, but they were enough. Most important of all, they were maddened with hunger. Sheer desperation drove the beasts forward in a perverse echo of the last desperate strike of the free armies of Middle-Earth against Sauron. Long years had passed since Éomer or his men had faced such disorganized and savage foes.  
  
Flintstrike lifted beneath the king, striking out at an orc with sharp hooves. The fell creature screeched and ducked away from the stallion's blow, driving a sword towards his belly.  
  
To Éomer's horror, Flintstrike twisted and screamed as the orc's blade found its mark. The great stallion collapsed in a heap of thrashing legs and snapping teeth. Éomer was flung clear before his horse's weight could pin him, but the impact of a jagged rock against his side knocked the wind from him and sent sharp pain running through his body.  
  
Flashes of color and light obscured Éomer's vision for a long, breathless moment. His ears seemed stopped with thick cotton, and his lungs were weighted with lead. Fog clouded his thoughts and bound them to the pain in his side, a thick mass that held him back from the battle and thoughts of his own safety.  
  
Finally, the simple thought, _Breathe_ , came to him, and Éomer struggled to clear his vision. Slowly, the sights and sounds of the battle returned. He saw the orcs falling beneath Rohirric hooves and swords, but he also saw blood streaming from the bodies of his men and their horses—too much blood.  
  
 _We cannot fall back,_ he told himself. _We must finish this._ He struggled to his feet, ignoring the swell of nausea and the tightening of injured muscles.  
  
He was still struggling to straighten and raise his sword when the blow came.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a twist of fate leaves Eomer horribly wounded, friends and family gather to support him and each other in a time of need. AU, angst as well as action; features Eomer, Lothiriel, Elfwine, Eowyn + assorted friends. PG-13 for some violence.

The horses clattered into Edoras, blowing and shaking their heads, anxious for a warm stall and good food. Their riders had barely waited a moment before grooms came out to take the reins of the animals.  
  
"Check his legs carefully," the lead rider said as the youngest boy took his horse. "He took a bad step on the road, and I fear he may have injured himself."  
  
The boy looked up in awe and nodded. "Of course, your majesty. He'll have the best care."  
  
Aragorn smiled down at the youngster with such warmth in his eyes that one could almost forget he was a great warrior and king of men. "I've no doubt of that, lad. His name is Arthalion. He enjoys a good scratch behind the ears every now and then." Still smiling, the king set his hand just behind the horse's poll and rubbed. The dark bay stallion leaned into his master's touch with a contented snort.  
  
"Off with you now," the king told boy and horse.  
  
As the last of the party's mounts were led away, a stately figure in a gown of green and white descended the steps into the courtyard. She made directly for the king, and some feet away dropped into a curtsey. "My lord," she said, "it warms my heart to welcome you to Edoras."  
  
"Please." Aragorn stepped forward and offered his hand to the woman. "There is no need for such formality, my lady. We come as friends in time of need, not as royalty."  
  
Lothíriel rose at Aragorn's bidding and offered him a tired smile. He could easily see the shadows of worry and doubt that darkened her fair features, and his heart went out to her. For a moment, he saw Arwen and dreaded what might become of his own beloved wife if he were to suffer the same fate that had befallen Éomer.  
  
A length of shadow fell on the ground beside the pair, and a gentle voice said, "My lady, I fear that I cannot express my sympathies without stumbling over them." Aragorn stepped aside so that the speaker could address Lothíriel more directly.  
  
"Prince Legolas," she said, grasping his offered hand in warm thanks. "I am glad that you have come. And you, Gimli son of Glóin," she added, glancing down at the dwarf who stood beside the lord of Ithilien. "We are fortunate to have such friends as you."  
  
She turned her gaze to Aragorn, who smiled for her sake and said, "Legolas and Gimli were with me in Gondor when your message came. News has also reached Lady Éowyn, and she rides as quickly as she may behind us."  
  
Lothíriel nodded as she led the small group into the royal residence. Servants of the household tended to the needs of Aragorn's small escort, leading them to housing and food, and in many cases renewing old acquaintances.  
  
"Having Éowyn beside him will doubtless ease his troubles," the queen said softly, as if to reassure herself.  
  
"How does he fare?" Aragorn asked. It had been several days since news of Éomer's misfortune had first reached Gondor, along with an urgent request from the family that news be sent to Éowyn. The message had also urged those whom Éomer called friend to come to his side, for many feared that his time grew short.  
  
"Poorly," Lothíriel admitted with a tired sigh. "He does not wish us to see it, and the healers do all they may to buoy our hopes, but I can see it in his eyes. I fear that his strength is leaving him, though he fights for our sakes."  
  
***  
  
Éomer crumpled as the orc's weapon crashed against the back of his neck, sending a jolt through his already screaming muscles. Dark spots danced in his vision, alternating in dizzying fashion with sharp bursts of multi-colored light. He caught himself with one arm before he could collapse entirely, and somehow managed to bring his sword to heel. In a desperate, blind lunge, he sank the tip of his blade into the orc's calf.  
  
A loud squeal of outrage and pain erupted behind Éomer, and he yanked his sword free. Strength surged into his body as the heat of battle once again swept through him, and he straightened to find his attacker stumbling back, hissing and brandishing a heavy length of twisted wood. The creature's fingers were as shriveled and dry as its cudgel, and Éomer almost winced at the sight of its emaciated torso, showing from beneath ragged clothes still worn in a vain attempt to ward off the cold of winter. In another few days, the orc would be laid low with hunger if it survived the battle, and that knowledge had driven it to achieve strengths unheard of even for its twisted kind.  
  
Pity swelled in Éomer's breast, for as much as he hated orcs, he could not wish the slow suffering of starvation on any creature. It was well that many of these beasts would die today, he decided. It was the only release they would ever find from their foul existence.  
  
The orc swayed, snakelike, watching Éomer and waiting for an opportunity to move past the gleaming sword, but the king was in a favorable position. Rocks protected his back, and the orc's companions were too busy clawing at the king's men to bother with the slowly dancing pair.  
  
Finally, the orc moved, darting for Éomer's right side, but the king reacted swiftly. As the orc dove to the left, seeking to draw the king into a poorly conceived and badly executed ruse, it found itself hanging on Éomer's sharp blade, the bite of the steel having traveled through its side and into its heart. There was time enough for the creature to gasp before death shook its form, then left it to dangle from Éomer's blade like a broken bird caught in a tree.  
  
Éomer worked his sword free and looked to his men. With his vision cleared, the scene no longer looked as desperate. Horse and rider alike were wounded, but they fought on, and the orcs were quickly being sent to their uneasy rests or driven back into the chill night.  
  
Then, Éomer's gaze fell on the still grey form of Flintstrike. Blood trickled from a wound in the stallion's belly, and the broken carcass of an orc was trapped beneath his shoulder. Grief swelled in the king at the sight of the dying stallion, whose throat still rattled as he tried to draw breath.  
  
There was nothing that the king could do. At that moment, a new enemy crashed into him, knocking him away from the suffering horse.  
  
***  
  
Pale sunlight draped its gauzy layers over the air as Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli—the Three Hunters—set foot in the chambers of Éomer of Rohan. Even such weak light lent much-needed cheer to the room, its touch tracing the flanks of horses woven with great care into long tapestries and coaxed with gentle hands from brass and silver.  
  
Like other visitors to the room, the friends' gazes were drawn to the massive bed against one wall. Even Legolas needed a moment to discern Éomer's form, so still did he lie. As one, the group moved to the wounded king's side, Aragorn leading as he always had.  
  
"Éomer," Aragorn said softly.  
  
The king of the Mark stirred and opened tired eyes. His smile barely lightened the shadows on his face, and the simple effort of bringing a hand forth from beneath the covers seemed almost too much for him.  
  
"Aragorn," he whispered, taking the man's proffered hand. His gaze traveled beyond the high king's shoulder to the stately elf, and then down the line of the prince's arm to the dwarf. "And Legolas and Gimli, I see. You did not come solely on my account, I hope."  
  
"Nay," Gimli stoutly denied, his expression lost somewhere between a friendly smile and a concerned frown. "We came for the exercise, horse-master, and for the mead of your halls."  
  
Éomer's eyes twinkled faintly at Gimli's gruff jest, and he reached out to clasp the dwarf's hand. "Then you chose wisely, my friend, for I am told the mead is excellent this year."  
  
"Believe not a word he says, my lord," Legolas interjected. "My small friend would no more leave his own halls in the winter than he would burn his beard. Unless, of course, he was sufficiently motivated."  
  
This earned cautious laughter from the king of the Mark, and he exchanged Gimli's grip for the stately prince's. "Well said, Legolas, though I doubt not that Gimli would dispute Elvish knowledge of Dwarves until the last days of this world."  
  
"That he would," Gimli said, "but now is not the time for such discussions."  
  
"How do you fare, Éomer?" Aragorn asked as he settled in a chair at his friend's side. Gimli took the chair immediately to his left, and Legolas perched lightly at the end of the large bed.  
  
"The healers would have me say that I grow stronger by the day, though I do not look it." Éomer sighed and closed his eyes, taking a deep, painful breath. "Optimism is a great healer, I know …"  
  
"… but you do not see the hope they do?" Legolas gently offered.  
  
Éomer shook his head, and the dark golden locks of his hair spread against the pillow. Silver had touched his temples in recent years, and where once it had been a herald of his growing wisdom, it now seemed as the bitter touch of death. "I carry my hope with me, but I cannot deny my growing weariness. Simply speaking with you … It exhausts me."  
  
Aragorn leaned forward and laid a hand on Éomer's shoulder, careful of a bandage's bulky outline through the other man's clothing. "Then do not speak. Let us keep you company. We've enough energy and conversation for us all. Our purpose here is to give you strength, not to rob it from you."  
  
Éomer nodded and relaxed against his pillows. The Three Hunters spoke of the many things they had shared with the king, of the antics of their common friends, and of the prospects for a mild and generous spring. A pleasant hum of companionship filled the room, bringing warmth that the winter sunshine had not the strength to offer.  
  
***  
  
 _Southrons,_ Éomer thought desperately as he caught the blow of his attackers's sword against the flat of his blade. The band was large, most likely remnants of Sauron's armies still unable to make their way home after the War of the Ring, and like the orcs, driven to desperation by the deprivations of winter. _They must have been watching,_ he surmised. _They waited until the orcs were almost finished, and now they intend to finish us._  
  
Time for further thought was lost in the clash of blades and the shuddering impact of body against body. Éomer, already tired and shaken, found himself struggling to react. He was quickly reduced to a failing defense, and what few glimpses he gained of his men showed that they were facing the same difficulties.  
  
There were at least fifteen Southrons that he could see, all fresh though thin. Two had centered their attentions on the king, and were driving him mercilessly. A part of his mind realized that to loose even another foot of ground would seal his fate, but his flagging body protested against the effort to defend itself.  
  
One of the Southrons sneered threateningly, while the other renewed his attack with greater vigor, a triumphant smirk already well in place.  
  
Éomer fought to catch his breath, his blade coming up slowly to defend his side. He staggered back under the Southron's blow. His footing betrayed him, his heel coming down on a rock slick with snow. He fell to his knees, just barely catching himself with one arm as his other raised the sword to defend his exposed form.  
  
The effort was too weak and too late. The blades of the Southrons slammed into Éomer, forcing their way through armor and flesh until they reached bone. He bit back a cry at the sudden wash of intense pain, and his arm trembled as he struggled to remain upright, to move, to breathe. He twisted towards his attackers and lifted the weapon, but the taller Southron knocked it away. His smile was savage, twisted with delight at the sight of blood like a warg faced with its newest pray.  
  
Blood rushed from Éomer's body, leaving him faint, his sight dim and hearing clouded. Foreign words flowed gleefully from the Southrons' lips. Éomer prepared to sell his life dearly, forcing himself to his feet though he remained hunched. His sword clashed weakly against the Southrons', and more often than not, their blades found their marks. The king fell back until he could go no more, his back pressed against the cold rock wall.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a twist of fate leaves Eomer horribly wounded, friends and family gather to support him and each other in a time of need. AU, angst as well as action; features Eomer, Lothiriel, Elfwine, Eowyn + assorted friends. PG-13 for some violence.

Legolas sang softly as he kept watch over Éomer, his voice moving through the music as a bird through the air. It was a song of healing and peace, taught to the prince by his mother long centuries before.  
  
In the past two days, Éomer had taken a turn for the worse. Beginning the night after Legolas had arrived with Aragorn and Gimli, the king had slowly sunk into a state of dreams and delusions. He slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes delirious, and often exhausted. His periods of lucidity were so marred by weariness that his energies drained until he could do no more than lie still and listen to the world about him.  
  
Those who surrounded the king feared to leave him unattended, and so someone was always at his side. Legolas had only recently coaxed Lothíriel from the room, insisting that she rest after almost a full day spent at her husband's side.  
  
"I will call for you if he wakes," the elf had assured her.  
  
With a single, worried glance at her husband, the queen had finally acquiesced.  
  
Now, as the afternoon wore on, Legolas did what he could for Éomer with the arts of his people. The king was dying. All that remained was to ease his passage.  
  
"Éomer …"  
  
The elf glanced up from his seat in the window casement, and his gaze fell on the stricken features of Éowyn, lady of Ithilien. She hurried into the room without acknowledging the elf and sank down on the side of her brother's bed.  
  
"Éomer," she repeated, clasping his frail hand in her own flushed fingers. Several emotions warred in her eyes as she reached up to brush tangled locks of hair away from Éomer's forehead.  
  
Legolas let his song trail into silence, then slipped from the window ledge. This was not a moment for any to intrude upon, and he left the room to Éowyn and the tears that he knew would soon come.  
  
***  
  
"My lord!"  
  
Éomer heard the cry, but did not see its source. All he knew was that the Southrons had been distracted. Their blows were no longer heavy against his bowed shoulders, their blades no longer sinking deep into metal, leather, flesh and bone. Vaguely, he caught the dull ringing tones of their worn swords against truer metal. Blood rushed into his bowed head and from his wounds as he struggled to gather himself, to at least turn clouded eyes on the nearby conflict. He might soon be forced to again defend himself as best he could. The king of the Mark would not fold meekly in the face of any challenger, he told himself firmly.  
  
"The king!" one of the voices cried. Éomer, distracted by the effort of bringing his sword around, could not identify it through the muddy haze of rushing blood. He knew only that it was a voice of one of his own. Unconsciously, he relaxed, and did not even sense his body sagging back against the rock wall that had trapped him for the Southrons' swords.  
  
Ages passed, it seemed, before that same voice echoed in his ear, an urgent call to the king.  
  
"My lord! Do you hear me?"  
  
Éomer blinked. " _Lord,_ " he thought sluggishly. _He is speaking to me …_  
  
"My lord, please," it asked again.  
  
Éomer gathered himself, drawing a great breath of air into his protesting body, and rasped out a tired phrase—"I am … here"—as if to reassure himself that he was still inside his body, still living.  
  
There was an audible gasp of relief from the voice beside him, and its owner's hand fell on his shoulder. "Éru be praised," it said softly, and Éomer chuckled softly in his own mind, wondering what is was Éru hoped to accomplish by filling his head with fog and cotton.  
  
"Lie still, my lord," the voice went on. "Ornhelm is coming. He will tend your wounds."  
  
A part of Éomer could not help thinking, _To what end?_  
  
***  
  
 _He is so still,_ was Éowyn's first thought, soon followed by, _And how very pale._  
  
Aloud, she said, "Oh, my brother," her voice hushed. It was almost as if she was just as frightened of disturbing herself with her words as she was of disturbing him. Éomer, her brother once so strong, was now reduced to a withered thing, gaunt and white against his pillows in the faint winter sun. He did not stir as she touched him, the gentle, comforting caresses of a sister having no discernable effect on him.  
  
 _How have you come to this end?_ she thought. _It should have been many years more before we faced this parting …Many peaceful years._  
  
It was unfair for this man, who had survived so much to fall now to the blows of desperate brigands, the fragments of the terrifying army he had once faced. It was unfair that the remnants of the war should track Éomer to his end and strike him down.  
  
"It is not fair," she said softly, combing her fingers through his hair and bringing some order to the bedraggled, straw-gold strands.  
  
"Perhaps … not."  
  
Éowyn's heart jumped, so startled was she by the sudden opening of her brother's lips and eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath and glared at him as if she had only been worrying over his unkempt hair and not his fading strength.  
  
"Do not _do_ that to me, Éomer," she scolded.  
  
A faint smile played at the corner of her brother's lips and he squeezed her hand with what strength he had. "Did I … frighten the … noble lady of … Ithilien?" he asked haltingly, unable to draw in enough breath for more than a few words at a time.  
  
Éowyn struggled to keep the fear and sadness from her features, instead mustering the smile she had always worn for their friendly banter through the years. "You did not frighten me, Brother. You startled me. There is a difference."  
  
"Indeed," Éomer said wryly, a faint twinkle behind the clouded pain in his eyes.  
  
"Yes," Éowyn firmly insisted. "If you discuss the matter with Faramir, he will gladly enlighten you as to the difference. He has studied it extensively during the years of our marriage."  
  
A weak laugh found admittance to Éomer's throat, and he again squeezed his sister's hand.  
  
"I am … glad you came," he managed.  
  
"Always," Éowyn assured him, her own smile sad and loving as she bent down to kiss his forehead. "Always I will be with you, Éomer."  
  
***  
  
"My lord."  
  
Another voice, different this time, pushed its way through the fog into Éomer's awareness. He blinked, and a shadow took shape through the haze over his vision. It seemed vaguely familiar, but the effort to put the voice's features into focus was too much, and Éomer's eyelids slid closed.  
  
A hand grasped his limp fingers and slack elbow, gently moving the arm he had pressed against his side sometime during the Southrons' vicious attack.  
  
 _The Southrons,_ Éomer thought. _Where?_ He wanted to voice his concerns, but a sudden flaring pain in his side forced him to bite his lip against a wretched scream. The whimper that escaped his lips was weak and frightened, but he barely realized that he had even made a sound.  
  
"I am sorry, my lord," the new voice said. "I must see the wounds. It will be painful, and until I know better how you fare, I dare not risk any medicines."  
  
Éomer had no answer, save his wildly struggling breath as the other's probes moved to more sensitive areas of his wounds, reaching into him and finding his pain. Something was muttered, just behind the curtain of his awareness, and moments later a spring of cold moisture ran over his forehead. It traveled into his very bones and was carried through his body, cooling the fires stoked by his wounds and the other's explorations.  
  
Just when Éomer thought he could hold on no longer and was wooing the darkness encroaching on him, the fingers drew back and the voice returned. "I am going to give you something for the fever and pain, my lord, and bind your wounds. Just try to relax. We will take you home soon."  
  
***  
  
"He is fading."  
  
Éowyn's voice trembled as she crossed the room, her white skirts swirling around bare feet. Faramir watched her from his seat at the window, wanting to tell her to put something on those delicate feet but not wanting to interrupt her flow of words and feelings. Her brother was dying, or so everyone was reasonably certain. The healers still held out the faintest hope to them, but it was more out of worn habit than anything else.  
  
"He does not fight, Faramir!" she cried, and in her voice, he could hear the tears struggling to break past the marble facade she so often carried before her like a shield. "He does not fight, and it … "  
  
She stopped her pacing, delicate toes sinking into thick fur rugs, and hugged herself as if she might break. "It frightens me. It is not the Éomer I know."  
  
The last of her barriers seemed to tremble as she clutched at the fabric of her sleeves. Faramir stood and walked to her, opening his arms. She accepted his invitation, nearly falling into his embrace, and her body shook with the first of her tears.  
  
"I just want my brother," she whispered into his shoulder.  
  
Faramir drew a ragged breath of his own. He knew those words so very well. He had thought and whispered them to himself day after day when portents of Boromir's death had first reached him, and through the years he had often found himself forming those same sounds whenever a situation arose that he feared he could not face alone. While Éowyn's relationship with Éomer held little in common with the relationship of Denethor's sons, it nevertheless shared the simple traits of mutual loyalty and need.  
  
What could Faramir possibly say to his wife, this woman he had loved for thirty years, since the moment he had met her in the Houses of Healing? He was granted a rare privilege, he knew, to be there for her when her walls collapsed. Few ever saw this side of Éowyn, the soft lily that bent to the elements just as all things must. Now, he knew, that lily needed only a place to anchor itself, and he gladly offered it.  
  
He let her cry against his chest for a long time, though it seemed as though only a few moments had passed when a knock sounded against their door. Éowyn stepped back and hurriedly wiped her tears. She offered a faint smile to her husband before withdrawing into the other chamber of their quarters. He knew that she would tend to her appearance now, rather than allow anyone else to see her weakness.  
  
The lord of Ithilien went to the door, drawing it open with an old soldier's automatic appreciation for the security of the heavy oak. Light spilled in from the hallway, causing their caller's face to be cast in shadow, but Faramir would have known the man in the darkest of night.  
  
"My lord," he greeted, bowing his head slightly and standing aside. "Please, come in."  
  
"Thank you," Aragorn said with a weary smile. "Is Éowyn here?"  
  
Faramir closed the door behind his king and gestured to a chair. Aragorn sat with a nod of gratitude, and Faramir took the seat across from him.  
  
"She is in the other chamber," he answered his king. He leaned forward and clasped his hands, elbows resting lightly on his knees. "Do you have news?"  
  
Aragorn nodded and rubbed a tired hand against his forehead. "Yes. We've received word from the Shire. Merry should be here sometime tomorrow, the day after at the latest. The ranger who brought the letter said that our little friend was close on his heels, and would have matched him stride for stride if not for the shorter legs of his pony."  
  
Faramir smiled and sat back. "That is good news indeed, though I suspect he will be famished upon his arrival. He must be sacrificing at least three meals a day to keep pace with one of your kin."  
  
The king laughed softly and nodded. "Indeed. I hoped that news of his arrival would cheer us all. There is no friend quite like a hobbit in times of great trouble."  
  
"Indeed there is not," answered another voice.  
  
Both men looked up as Éowyn stepped into the room, all sign of her earlier tears gone from her face, her feet now clad in soft white leather. She dropped a curtsy to Aragorn and matched his weary smile with her own.  
  
"Good evening, my lady," Aragorn offered, returning her gesture with a slight bow.  
  
Éowyn glided past the king and took a chair beside her husband's, settling herself with ghostly grace and folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Good evening, my lord," she returned. "You speak of hobbits and their friendship. I take this to mean that one of our dear friends comes to see us then?"  
  
"Merry. He should arrive tomorrow or the day after," the king confirmed.  
  
"It will be good to see him in these halls again," Éowyn said. Her gaze grew distant, but she soon returned to herself and swiftly directed the conversation to happier days.  
  
***  
  
Éomer blinked against the sudden flare of light behind the veil of his eyelids. Ill-defined shapes of walls and roofs were etched in the darkness above him, and as his eyes traveled down their ragged lines, they took in the sight of torches surrounding him.  
  
Slowly, the sound of rushing feet and tired hooves reached his ears. The slow swinging of the litter on which he lay halted entirely, and with a light jerk, it was lowered. Éomer did not feel it touch the ground by virtue of the blankets folded beneath him, but he sensed the firmer support along his back.  
  
Ornhelm bent over him and felt his forehead and cheeks, whispering, "We are home, my lord. Your family comes. How do you fare?"  
  
"You know … well enough," Éomer whispered in return. His body no longer burned as it had the first nights following the attack, and some of the initial cloud had faded from his mind and senses, but his wounds ached and the strength bled from him daily, even as the ugly slashes closed.  
  
Ornhelm smiled and tucked the blankets more securely around his king. "Here you will be tended as you should be, by healers more skilled than I," he assured the wounded man.  
  
"And the others?" Éomer asked, his thoughts turning now to the four other men who had been wounded, two of them badly enough that they also had to be carried, as well as the three horses lamed by the orcs and Southrons.  
  
"All are as well as they may be. Quickhoof has likely seen the last of his travels, but a warm stall and the companionship of others still await him. For the rest, I expect the healers shall promise a full recovery by spring."  
  
Éomer relaxed upon hearing this blessed news, but he felt a pang in his heart for Flintstrike, who lay exposed for weather and scavenger alike, the ground having been too cold and the men too few to offer the stallion any sort of burial. It was not the way Éomer would have wished to part with the horse.  
  
His musings were interrupted by the hurried rustle of thick skirts as Lothíriel rushed past the men standing vigilance over their king. Behind her, Elfwinë covered the ground with his father's long, swift strides. The queen was first to reach Éomer's side, and heedless of her fine garments and the wet dirt underfoot, she dropped to her knees beside her husband.  
  
"Éomer," she said, reaching out to trace the line of his cheeks with her fingers.  
  
Elfwinë was soon behind her, whispering, "Father," as if to assure himself that this was indeed that man.  
  
Éomer smiled for them and slipped a hand from beneath his warm coverings. Elfwinë caught it in a strong but gentle grip, his fingers long and fine like his mother's. Soon, Lothíriel enfolded the hands of both men in her own, pressing close to her son for comfort even as she stroked the side of Éomer's palm.  
  
The family exchanged no further words, and within moments, there was not the time for it. Healers of the household arrived, having consulted Ornhelm on the king's condition. They gave their lord a brief examination before waving to fresh litter-bearers and ordering them to bring the king to his rooms. One of the healers stepped away as Éomer was lifted and carried into the palace. The king caught the faint reassurance that the man offered his wife, blown to him on the soft breeze.  
  
"We will do all we can for him, my lady, but I fear that little remains to be done."


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a twist of fate leaves Eomer horribly wounded, friends and family gather to support him and each other in a time of need. AU, angst as well as action; features Eomer, Lothiriel, Elfwine, Eowyn + assorted friends. PG-13 for some violence.

A shaggy pony clattered into the courtyard early in the morning, shaking its head and nickering at the smell of horses and warm stables. The hobbit on its broad back drew in the reins and looked about, bright eyes searching for familiar faces.  
  
Within moments, a stocky form trundled out of one of the nearby buildings. He raised his large hand in greeting, and the hobbit smiled.  
  
"Gimli!" he exclaimed, dismounting as the dwarf approached. "It's good to see you."  
  
"I am glad to say the same, Master Hobbit," Gimli greeted warmly. He heartily embraced the Halfling, then stepped back and gave the pony an awkward pat on its thick neck.  
  
"Where are the others?" Merry asked, enthusiasm and worry mixing in his voice. "I take it from your greeting that I have not arrived too late."  
  
"Nay, you are in good time, my friend," said a new voice. Merry looked up to see Legolas walking towards him. He raised a hand in greeting to the elf, and was mildly surprised when Legolas knelt down to embrace him as well. "We've need of your cheerful spirit. Éomer is fading, though the healers do all they may to give us hope."  
  
Merry nodded, a resolute sigh filling his body. "I would not have forgiven myself if I was too late," he admitted. "I hope I can bring him some cheer, and I will pray for the best."  
  
"That is all anyone can ask," Gimli said, his voice gruff and eyes dark. He took Merry's arm and pulled him away from the pony. A stable boy came out to retrieve the animal, and Merry quickly issued instructions for its care before Gimli could drag him any further.  
  
Legolas rose to walk with his friends, an odd contrast to the shorter, broader statures of the hobbit and dwarf. Without a word spoken, the trio entered the royal household and traveled its halls to the door of Éomer's chambers. As one, they halted just outside. Legolas laid a hand on the heavy oaken door and glanced down at Merry.  
  
"There is someone with him at all times now," the elf informed him. "He is rarely awake, and even when his eyes open, he is often distant. I do not think he suffers much, anymore."  
  
"I understand," Merry replied, his lips tight with trepidation.  
  
"A healer sits with him now," Gimli said. "He will leave if you ask it of him."  
  
As Merry nodded, Legolas pulled the door open. The Hobbit slipped inside on silent feet. An elderly man, his long-fingered hands worn yet strengthened by decades of treating the sick, sat by the king's bedside. He looked up at the Hobbit's entrance, having heard the door. The two exchanged a glance, and the man stood and bowed to Merry, then left the room. The door creaked shut behind him, leaving Merry to his own devices.  
  
A quick examination showed Merry that, while the chairs were all sized for humans, the one beside Éomer's bed would be comfortable enough. He pulled himself up into the fur-lined seat and drew his knees towards his chest. He wanted to curb the instinct to swing dangling feet. It felt wrong, somehow, childish in the presence of a man he admired so much.  
  
Merry's oath of fealty, given at first to Théoden, extended to Éomer in his mind. The king of the Mark had given much to the Hobbit, and over the years, their friendship had grown to something beyond their shared love for the departed Théoden. It had been over twenty years since Merry had said farewell to a friend gained during the turbulent battle for Middle-Earth. Still, the departure of Frodo and Bilbo with the other Ringbearers could not compare to this. Merry had known what fate those friends had sailed towards—a place of healing and rest, reward for their faithful shouldering of great burdens. He had no such knowledge of Éomer's fate. None had ever made a clear promise of what awaited Men when they passed from the world.  
  
 _I hope that it is something spectacular,_ Merry mused. _Éomer deserves as much._ As a hobbit, he was used to the idea that the step after death was a mystery. No one had ever made clear the provisions for a hobbit's soul either, after all. The elves at least had Mandos and the promise of a life in Valinor once they were released; he'd learned that from Legolas after asking a tentative question. The dwarves, Gimli had told him, held a firm belief that Aulë would tend to them in death.  
  
 _I suppose we just have to trust our faith,_ he thought. _So far, things seem to turn out right in the end. At least, I hope they will for Éomer, no matter what comes._  
  
Merry glanced at Éomer, noting the pale face and the limp fingers splayed across dark furs. He slid further forward in his chair, and carefully laid his small hand over Éomer's. The king did not respond, but Merry smiled anyway and leaned forward.  
  
"Did I ever tell you about the time Pippin and I tried to build our own raft to float down the Brandywine?" he began, his eyes twinkling at the memories and the simple pleasure of sharing a story. "We were quite young—Pippin wasn't even in his tweens yet—but we were sure we could do it, absolutely certain. So we did. And we floated it. It took us two weeks, but we finally got it right. I'm not sure how, but we did. We got it right, and we ended up floating as free as you please down a nice stretch of river."  
  
For the next several hours, the hobbit remained like that, bonded to the king by touch, fealty and friendship. The stories flowed from his lips as if Éomer were there to ask him questions and laugh at his youthful escapades. It didn't matter to Merry that his friend remained silent. It only mattered that the hobbit's voice was there for Éomer to hear if he was able.  
  
***  
  
The bed was large and soft, but it seemed cold and lonely to Éomer as Lothíriel settled the vast sea of sheets, blankets and rugs over him. He winced as the weight of the covers pressed on tended wounds, even through the thick padding of his bandages. The king did not miss the echoing flash of pain in his wife's eyes, and stubbornly pulled an arm free of the covers to take her hand in his own. He offered a smile and a weak squeeze of the fingers. Lothíriel returned the gesture, then gently tucked his arm back beneath the warmth of his blankets and bent down to kiss his forehead.  
  
"Rest," she ordered him. "I must go speak with the healers."  
  
Éomer watched her walk to the other side of the room, remaining still and quiet as she would have him do. He longed to join her in that dark corner, to stand between her and Elfwinë with his arms around them, to comfort them.  
  
 _And yet, if you were not in this bed, they would not need your comfort now,_ he mused bitterly. Not for the last time, he cursed himself for not having more concern for the dangers of the road. He was weak, yes, and in great pain, but strangely, he was not tired. It seemed to him that everything in the room was more vivid than it should have been, from the thick texture of the covers against his skin to the hushed whispers of the healers across the room.  
  
Éomer knew already what those healers were saying, despite their attempts to reassure him while sewing him back together and swathing him in herbs and cloth. He was in danger of dying, the damage and blood loss possibly too great for the king of the Mark to survive. There was still hope for him, yes, but it was a failing hope. He could see that in the way Elfwinë's jaw clenched and Lothíriel's tears slipped past the guard of her thick, dark lashes. Eventually, someone would come to him and tell him this in words carefully cushioned to preserve his will to live. Éomer wanted to live, to heal from his hurts and stand with his family again. He wanted to survey the new foals with his son come spring, and to join Lothíriel in the simple but tedious labors of court functions. He wanted to sit down and break his fast with them in the scant hours of the morning allowed for family.  
  
There was more to be done yet, Éomer decided. He would not pass away quietly, not yet. He would find what moments of joy and life he still could, and most of all, he would refuse to be somber and mournful. Perhaps if he faced the world as if he were yet whole and healthy, that would be enough.  
  
***  
  
The light of Arnor was bright on the buildings of Edoras, etching their lines clearly against the white expanse of plains that surrounded the city. The snow of previous days had melted, but the grasses were now covered with a fine coat of frost that did not thaw until the late hours of the afternoon.  
  
Gimli stared out at the pale landscape, a frown etching new lines in his homely features above the rough border of his thick beard. Friends counted as dear as family were gathered together behind him, speaking in low voices. Gimli caught the bright tones of Merry, somewhat dulled by the circumstances that had brought the hobbit to Edoras the day before, as they mingled with the rich voice of Éowyn. A healer spoke next, his roughened tones nevertheless gentle as he explained what was to come.  
  
Despite his focus out the window, Gimli heard every word, and his frown deepened. He did not wish to know what the healer said, did not wish to believe it. _Cursed influence of the elves,_ he told himself. Dwarves did not deny the hard truth of things. They accepted and endured.  
  
"Gimli."  
  
Legolas's soft voice intruded on Gimli's thoughts, and for the first time the dwarf noticed the long hand that had alighted on his shoulder. He stiffened a little, knowing what the elf was going to tell him. After all, he had just heard it moments before from the healer.  
  
"It will not be long now," Legolas said.  
  
"I know." Gimli's voice was rougher than usual, deepened by emotion. His father's voice had sounded like that, the day he'd come to tell Gimli of his mother's death. The dwarf sighed and turned away from the window, meeting Legolas's gaze. His friend's eyes seemed darker somehow, as if his own light were dimmed in acknowledgement of a friend's fading life.  
  
"It does not seem right," Gimli finally said.  
  
Legolas said nothing. There was nothing to be said.  
  
***  
  
It was a strange feeling, unlike anything Éomer had experienced before. He was not certain if he should be grateful or frightened. The lightness and clarity that had suddenly wrapped around him were so enveloping that he half thought he would suffocate in the sensation. Was this right? Was it good? He did not have the answers. He only knew that, at last, he felt something like his old self and yet further from that self than he had ever been. Words did not come to him, but he felt as though he was more complete than he had ever been in his life.  
  
Voices filtered through the veil, familiar, like rain pattering against the windows. He let them wash over him, and they soothed him, bearing him up so that he could be better wrapped in that light sensation. His family and friends were near, he knew, and yet he did not wish to open his eyes to them just yet. It was enough to simply feel their presence.  
  
 _For them,_ something seemed to whisper in his mind. _For them. A gift._  
  
Éomer drew in a slow breath, and did as the voice suggested. He opened his eyes on a pale world confined by dark stone walls and softened with tapestries and rugs. A cluster of people was gathered just past the foot of his bed, and Éomer smiled when he recognized Meriadoc Brandybuck amongst them. Unbidden, a memory came of the hobbit's voice penetrating a darkness Éomer had been too weak to fight.  
  
The time was drawing near. Éomer felt it, but he held fast to the world he saw, knowing that it would mean much to the people in it.  
  
Elfwinë was the first to notice Éomer's gaze. He halted the hushed conversation by laying his hand over Lothíriel's forearm. The others followed the prince's gaze to Éomer's bed. The king smiled and met eyes with each.  
  
Then, he let go.  
  
As his breath faded, he heard a voice whisper, as from far away, "Safe journey, Brother."


End file.
